by Ava March
He hadn’t given it any thought at the time. He’d been half-awake and merely swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to his own bed to get a few more hours of sleep. And if he were to put a label on Max last night, he would have to call him subdued. Oh, they’d played but Max hadn’t been as voracious as usual. He’d assumed Max had been showing Tristan his particular brand of consideration. But when combined with that morning’s nudge and now this...
Tristan shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking ever so faintly.
Max looked up. For a moment, he appeared almost surprised to see Tristan, as if he’d not known he was in the room. “Yes?” he asked, the V firmly affixed between his brows, pencil still in hand.
Tristan forced a pleasant smile. “I just stopped by to see how your day has been. My apologies for disturbing you.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Yes, there clearly was.
“I will leave you to your ledgers then. Good day.” He left the study, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him.
The extremely short visit lingered over him like one of the clouds hanging heavy in the sky. Yet he refused to allow himself to dally when time came to dress for supper.
He’d almost finished his glass of wine by the time Max entered the dining hall. Max tipped his head as he passed Tristan’s place. Once he sat at the other end of the long table, the footmen jumped into action, filling Max’s wineglass, refilling Tristan’s and serving the first course.
The only sounds that broke the silence were the clinks of cutlery against china. There wasn’t even the tap of rain against the tall windows to provide a comforting lull, as the sky had finally seen fit to begin to clear.
Tristan had taken only a few bites of the fish when the scrape of chair legs against the floor jerked his gaze to Max.
Max stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “Business matters require my attention.”
And he left the dining hall without another word, without a tip of his head, without even a glance to Tristan.
* * *
Max did not allow his strides to slacken as he passed through the back garden. Rain be damned. He should have traversed this path hours ago, as soon as the sun had risen. Should not have waited until the sun had almost finished its trek across the sky.
He had known without looking at a calendar that today was the day. He had felt it tap him on the shoulder last night. The moment he’d opened his eyes that morning, he had felt it drape over his heart like a thick, suffocating blanket, turning him into someone who was not at all fit for company.
Tristan likely thought him an arse and rightly so. But Max would make it up to him another time. Better to keep Tristan at arm’s length now than to risk saying or doing something to push him away forever.
Max made his way through the cluster of elm trees. A light breeze rustled the leaves, sending a few fat raindrops to the sparse grass beneath the trees’ canopies. The elms let out at a small clearing, and on the other side of the clearing was a low wooden fence with a gate Max only opened once a year.
The metal hinge creaked as he pushed the gate open. The blanket draping his heart grew heavier, a leaden mass weighing down his soul. His feet took him to the second marble stone in the fourth row. Eight dukes of Pelham had come before him, but it wasn’t until the fifth when Arrington Park was built and the low fence constructed around this area on the property. Close enough to be within easy walking distance from the house yet hidden by the woods, giving the family plot a distinct sense of tranquility.
Dropping to his knees, he gathered the few leaves scattered before his father’s gravestone and tucked them into his pocket. The groundskeepers kept the area in order—the grass trimmed and the weeds at bay—but the earlier rains must have blown those leaves where they did not belong.
Rocking back to rest his arse on his heels, he clasped his hands on his thighs.
“I’m sorry.”
That was how he always started, with an apology. Empty, thin words that could never reverse the past.
He was trying his best to be a good duke. It was his only recourse. The only form of atonement available to him. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but worry if it was enough. Would his father have been proud of him? One thing was certain though.
“You were the finest of fathers, and I was very...” He swallowed hard, swallowed down the thorns that seemed to fill his throat. “...very fortunate to have you.”
What he wouldn’t give to change the past. To be the man he was today six years ago. To still have his father in his life.
Bowing his head, Max took a deep breath, the air shuttering on the inhale. He closed his eyes, fought back the prick of tears.
He had no notion of how much time passed, but he became gradually aware of the twilight darkness surrounding him.
Another deep, long breath, and he got to his feet.
“I loved you.”
And that was how every visit ended. With those three words Max had never uttered when his father had been alive.
* * *
Tristan opened the hidden door to a dark passageway. It was after eleven and Max still hadn’t left his door open. He couldn’t even detect a faint line of light seeping under the door at the other end.
Either Max had already extinguished all the candles and had gone to bed alone, or he had yet to retire for the night.
The possibility Max’s valet could be in the bedchamber, preparing the room for Max, kept Tristan from peeking around the door. That left him with two options. Either continue to wait or check the study.
He’d already waited over an hour beyond their usual time, each passing minute serving as fodder for the worry. So Tristan chose action over continued inaction. He slipped on his shoes, put on a cravat and waistcoat, and left his rooms.
Max worked a hell of a lot, but working so late would be excessive even for him. Could Max’s determination to spend so much time behind his desk be a hint of something worse to come? Tristan hadn’t even been at the Park a full month yet. If Max was already growing bored with him...
Stop.
Worrying would get him nowhere. There was no use whatsoever in fretting until he knew the reason behind the closed door at the end of the passageway. As he had told himself earlier, perhaps Max’s ledgers were proving troublesome today. Perhaps a business matter truly did require his attention. Max was a duke after all. There had to be a lot of business concerns that continually begged for his time.
The house had already been closed for the night. The corridors dark save for a lone sconce near the top of the stairs. The servants abed save for the lone night butler stationed in the entrance hall, the same slim, proper man who had greeted Max when they had arrived at the Park almost four weeks ago.
Rather than ask after Max’s whereabouts, Tristan tipped his head to the butler and made his way to the study.
The barest line of light seeped from beneath the thick walnut door.
Tristan pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He lifted his arm, gathered his courage and then knocked lightly.
Again, nothing.
Max had to be in there. Maybe he had fallen asleep at his desk.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see you.
Tristan gave his head a quick shake, trying to throw off the thought.
The hell with it. Just open the damn door.
He reached out, wrapped his fingers around cool brass. The click of the knob echoed in the darkness surrounding him.
He pushed open the door.
A single candle on the corner of Max’s desk created a pool of golden light around Max and the desk. He had abandoned his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. The knot of his cravat was partially undone, and his usually tidy, slicked-bac
k hair was tousled as if he had been running his hands through it, though at the moment one of his hands was wrapped around an almost-empty glass. And there was a half-empty bottle at his elbow.
“Max?” Tristan closed the door behind him and stepped into the room.
With a start and a slight sway, Max looked up. It took a couple of seconds for his eyes to focus on him. Tristan knew the moment when Max recognized him for he pulled his spine straight, or at least he attempted to. Then he seemed to give it up as a lost cause for his spine slumped and he downed the last splash of liquid in his glass.
Oh dear Lord. Max was foxed.
There was no need to ask what Max was drinking. The scent of gin poured off him. Why he was drinking gin...now that was the pressing question. Yet Tristan held his tongue. He merely sat in one of the armchairs before the desk and waited.
Patience was the best course of action when dealing with a drunkard. Give them time, and they’d unburden themselves or simply fall asleep. Hopefully Max would choose the former. He’d never seen Max drink more than a glass of brandy or whisky. Never seen him even approach tipsy. What had driven him to the bottle tonight of all nights? Whatever it was, Tristan would bet it had been behind Max’s more than distant behavior that day.
With his attention pinned on the empty glass in his hand, Max finally spoke. “Likely happened right about this time.”
“What happened?” Please, please don’t say Mr. Peterson left you. Tristan really did not want to hear details of the night Max’s ex-lover had ended their relationship.
“He died.”
Tristan blinked. “Who?” he asked, doing his best to sound merely curious.
“My father. I was a bloody bastard. A bloody self-righteous, arrogant, stubborn pain in the arse bastard. Had every right to call me out for it. And what did I do? Told him I despised him.” With a shake of his head, Max let out a sigh full of self-recrimination. “Mr. Jenkins said he had been in poor health of late. You’d think I would have been aware, but no. Not me, not his son. If I hadn’t been such a bleeding bastard, maybe he’d have confided in me. If I wouldn’t have been so focused on myself, maybe I would have seen the signs. But no. That night was the last night he went up to bed. And he went to his grave believing his only son despised him.”
A harsh wince squeezed Max’s eyes shut, pulled his mouth into a thin, hard line. His pain, reflected so clearly on his face, yanked at Tristan’s heart.
He wanted to get to his feet, round the desk, pull Max into his arms. But he didn’t dare.
It was some minutes before Max regained enough of his composure to speak again. “He was a good man. A good father. He tried to turn me into an upstanding, responsible gentleman, and all I did was argue with him.”
Tristan could well imagine Max would have butted heads with a man who had raised a son as strong-willed as himself.
“That’s why you work yourself so hard.” The revelation was past Tristan’s lips before it fully formed in his head.
The quick glance to Tristan, Max’s dark gaze there and then gone, indicated he had landed square on the truth.
Max dragged a hand through his hair. He looked so disheveled, so tired, so worn down, so consumed with misery. The usually straight shoulders now a distant memory. “He put all of himself into the dukedom. I refuse to let him down.”
“You’ve been managing the dukedom since your father passed?”
“Of course,” Max scoffed, as though doing otherwise would have been beyond ridiculous. “He had solicitors and estate managers and my uncles prepared to manage until I came of age. Believed his scapegrace of a son would need them. But I refused their assistance. Didn’t need their bloody help,” he spat, soaked in contempt. “Though the damn laws kept me from taking my seat in the Lords until I was one-and-twenty.”
Which meant Max had inherited the dukedom before he was old enough to take his seat. “What age were you when your father passed?”
“Seventeen.”
Max had been but an adolescent. An older adolescent but one just the same. And he’d been shouldering the responsibilities of the dukedom for—
“And when did he pass?”
“1816.”
Six years ago.
The numbers caught in Tristan’s head. He did a quick mental calculation.
Max was only three-and-twenty?
Tristan had sworn Max was around thirty years of age. The stern, serious demeanor. The self-confidence, the strength of character. He had the bearing, the appearance, the strong build and the manners of a man far beyond the impetuousness of youth. Yet he was but two years older than Tristan. A young man.
A young man aged by six years’ worth of grief and guilt and heavy responsibilities.
Max lifted his glass but paused. He let his hand drop back down, the empty glass clanking against the desk. “He called me down from London. I didn’t want to go, but he threatened to cut off my allowance. I can’t help but think maybe he wanted to see me because he wanted to tell me. Instead, I barged into this room. The entire household had to have heard us shouting. I didn’t want to be here. I was tired of this house. Tired of the tutors. Tired of being told I couldn’t go to university, that I needed to remain here with him. I was tired of being his goddamn heir. He was so disappointed in me. And I...” Max’s grip tightened around his glass, knuckles going white. Tristan braced for the crystal tumbler to shatter. “I called him a bastard. Told him I despised him.”
Tristan’s own relationship with his father had not been the best. He was different from his brothers, hadn’t been much use to the family farm. He hadn’t been the son his father had wanted. He’d sworn the man had surmised he preferred men around the time Tristan had turned sixteen and had treated him with distant disdain as a result. It was as if they’d had a silent agreement to not speak of it or even speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. But his father had never lifted a hand to him, never outright cut him off. Probably handled the realization his youngest son was a sod as best he could. Made living in the house uncomfortable, and his older brothers certainly hadn’t made the situation any better, but it could have been much worse. “Did your father know you preferred men?”
Max shook his head. “How could he when I was just figuring it out for myself?” Which likely hadn’t helped Max’s temperament at the time. The internal struggle, the questions, the doubts—Tristan could well remember those feelings. “If he was still alive, I’d think he’d be disappointed I’d never give him a grandson. But... But even when I slung curses at him and was cruel to him, he was never cruel in return. I’d like to believe...he wouldn’t have disowned me. That one day I could have told him the truth behind why I would not marry, and he would have...would have still...” A wince crossed his face, squeezing his eyes closed. “...loved me,” he whispered. Then he let out a noise of self-disgust and shook his head again. “Hell, he must have believed I hated him.”
A twinge of jealousy gripped Tristan’s heart. Max had grown up with a father who loved him. He’d had that rock-solid sense of security, of a parent’s unconditional love. Tristan had never felt loved in his life. “I don’t believe adolescents are supposed to be easy beasts to have about the house. He was your father. I can’t imagine how he could have taken your words spoken in anger as a reflection of your true feelings.”
“You weren’t there,” Max countered, spearing Tristan with a hard stare. His anger, directed squarely at himself, rang through the study. “I was a bastard. I wished him to hell that night.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he went still. For a brief moment, Tristan witnessed the utter anguish fill Max’s gaze. Then Max dropped his head, covered his face with his hands. “I wished my own father to hell,” he whispered, voice cracking, unable to bear what his seventeen-year-old self had done.
Tristan leaned forward, needing to do something, anything, to ease
Max’s pain. “Max, you cannot keep punishing yourself. You were only an adolescent, and the doctor told you your father had been in poor health. You weren’t responsible for his death.”
He would hazard a guess Max had never allowed himself to properly grieve the loss of his father. Instead, he had blamed himself, thrown himself into the dukedom, pushed himself to work. To sit behind his desk and focus all his energy into his responsibilities. He had turned his grief and his guilt into a form of self-flagellation by ledgers. And he’d stoically endured six years of his penance. Far too long for any man to bear, let alone bear alone.
Reaching out, Tristan rested a hand on the desk, got as close as he dared to get to Max and lowered his voice, his tone gentle yet filled with conviction. “You’re a brilliant duke, Max. Your father would have been very proud of you.”
Max flinched, as if Tristan’s praise had physically slammed into him. “I never... Never...not even once told him I...” Head still bowed, he pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. His shoulders trembled. He was so brittle, on the verge of cracking. Of crumbling beneath the weight of his grief.
And Tristan knew Max wouldn’t want him to see him that way.
So even though he wanted to stay with Max, to simply be there for him, Tristan got to his feet and grabbed the bottle of gin.
“He was your father, Max. He knew you loved him.” He offered Max what reassurance he could give him. Then on quiet footsteps, he left the study. Closed the door and waited a moment to make certain Max would be all right.
A hitching gasp cut through the solid walnut followed by the unmistakable sounds of Max’s sobs.
And Tristan waited, his heart breaking for Max, tears filling his own eyes, until those sounds drenched in misery and anguish finally subsided. Then he turned from the study door and made his way through the darkened corridors of the sprawling house and up to his bedchamber.
Chapter Thirteen